Trial by Fire
by Timberley
Summary: A young assassin struggles to hold onto her black and white ideals in an increasingly grey galaxy.
1. Chapter 1

Mass Effect: Trial by Fire

23rd June 2182

Cara Strang hated Omega. She watched it grow larger in the main cockpit viewport and was struck by how much it reminded her of the old Purple Striped Jellyfish she had once seen in London Zoo, when she was a wee girl, after her father had moved them from the Highlands. She shivered; the jellyfish had looked harmless enough, but the keeper had told them tales of the giant jellyfish, whose stings could kill a man.

_Much like Omega,_ she mused. When she had first come to the station, four years ago, one of the few pieces of advice that bastard Dures Malarian had given her was to watch her back. A brief smile flickered across her face; _he should have followed his own advice_.

Omega had originally been built on a large Eezo-rich asteroid by corporations hundreds of years ago, when humanity was still stumbling around their own planet, and had been taken over by successive warlords and criminals since the Eezo stopped flowing as the mining rush stripped the interior bare.

Cara's hands danced over the holo-controls, blipping the cold gas thrusters to avoid one of the larger pieces of debris from that mining operation that floated around the station like bees around a hive.

She drummed her fingers on the armrest of the pilot's seat, impatient. She had requested landing clearance nearly 20 minutes ago, and the batarian that had talked to her was as brusque and unwilling to help as any of the others she had met. She doubted she'd be landing any time soon; she was not that important to Aria T'Loak, though when she had been a resident of the station those years ago she had helped Aria deal with an embarrassing problem. Idly, she wondered if Aria remembered her; asari were meant to have good memories, and Aria's seemed to be better than most.

Ostensibly she was a freelance gun for hire, which accounted for her personal spaceship, but this was merely a cover, and one that her employers had gone to great lengths to set up. Her target was on the station, according to the intelligence file she'd read before she left, and was apparently making no effort to hide his position.

_Numpty_, she thought as her ship passed another asteroid. For a Batarian State Intelligence Officer he did himself no favours. She supposed it was a batarian thing; their desire to seem superior to any other species was almost as great as their desire to remove humanity from the galactic stage. _Not on my watch though_, she thought with a grim smile.

"Mistress?" The synthesised plumy English tones of Arthur, the adaptive Virtual Intelligence that was her constant companion and shipboard computer system, snapped her out of her revere. The console next to her changed from displaying engine readouts to show a small orange ball; Arthur's avatar.

"Aye?" Asked Cara with a sigh. Despite her years of education away from the old country, she still retained her Scots accent: a fact that she took great pride in.

"I've just been contacted by our employers. Apparently Mister Pa-Je is making enquiries into their warehouse on Omega. Our employer recommends stepping up proceedings and ensuring that the operation remains viable."

"Is that right?" Cara steepled her fingers, resting her nose on the tips of her index fingers. _This was a wee bit of a twist_, she thought; Pa-Je was usually not so careless as to get involved with actual fieldwork. "Have you replied yet?"

"Not yet mistress."

"Right. Tell them that it will remain viable. Incidentally, have you seen the freighter to our portside aft that's doing its level best to look inconspicuous?"

"Reply sent. And yes, I have noticed the freighter. The MSV Carrington, a Kowloon-class vessel, apparently delivering dried goods to one of the human restaurant complexes."

"Did you hack Omega's computers for that?"

"No, the freighter's computers. I was careful mistress."

"Good. I'd hate to abort this one because my ship got too inquisitive." She took a deep breath, almost feeling the smug satisfaction radiating from Arthur's avatar. "Go on then, what else did you find out?"

"The Carrington's transit logs were quite detailed. Before coming to Omega, it stopped off at Arcturus Station, and the Alliance Intelligence facility orbiting Tarsius."

"Interesting. What d'you reckon then; drop-off or pick up?" Cara glanced at the real-time vid footage the rear hull-mounted camera pod was feeding her main screens. On the surface of it, the Carrington seemed to be a normal vessel, but this was Alliance Intelligence; they tried to be discrete. _Bless them_; thought Cara,_ they're trying at least. I wonder why they're here?_

"PSV S-gale, this is Omega Control," growled the speaker, interrupting her train of thought. Cara winced at the batarian's mangled pronunciation of her beloved language. "You have clearance to dock in Hanger Bay Twelve, Pad Nine. A representative will meet you there to arrange docking fees."

"This is PSV Sgàil," said Cara, tartly correcting the pronunciation. "Roger that. Many thanks. Out."

She severed the connection with a wave of her hand, and set about bringing the small craft into the hanger bay. The holographic Heads-Up Display responded to the haptic interface sensors implanted in her fingertips, displaying her optimum course. She tapped a few controls on the display, watching the concentric orange circles line up. The display flashed to tell her she was on course.

"Arthur, bring us in. I'm going to have a wash," she said, hitting the release button on her restraints and hitting the button on the side of the pilot's chair. Immediately it swung around, away from the view of the rapidly approaching station.

She walked quickly out of the small cockpit into the narrow steel-coloured corridor that ran the length of the ship, heading towards the small head at the starboard aft, her composite-soled boots loud on the metal deck. She waved open the door and stepped inside the small room, hearing the door slide closed behind her. She leaned over the sink, hands gripping the metal rim and let out a sigh. _Time to get my game face on_, she thought, inhaling a deep lungful of heavily scrubbed air, a vague hint of tea tree oil working over her sinuses.

She dialled the tap to cold and let the water trickle over her hands before she splashed some on her face, letting the shock wake her up. _Climate control's all well and good_, she mused as she towelled her face dry,_ but it doesn't half make you sleepy._

The ship lurched suddenly with a brief thump, making Cara's heart miss a beat. Her eyes grew wide;_ what had Arthur hit?_

"Mistress, we have docked successfully," came Arthur's clipped tones over the recessed speaker above the sink.

"So I felt," said Cara sarcastically, scowling at the discrete speaker grille. She felt another lurch, and instinctively grabbed the sides of the sink again. "Now what?"

"The landing pad is being lifted into position to allow airlock use. Nothing to worry about I assure you."

"Aye right," muttered Cara, sliding the towel over the rail nearby.

"What was that mistress?"

"Nothing Arthur," chuckled Cara: even an adaptive VI could be remarkably human at times. "Have you had any other messages?"

"Nothing mistress. I feel it prudent to inform you that the Carrington's flight trajectory took it towards the docking bay above our own."

"I see." Cara pursed her lips thoughtfully. _Were they onto her? If so, her employer would be very upset if they caught her._

She waved the door open and entered the main corridor once again. It only took a few steps before she was in front of the inner airlock door on the starboard side of the ship. The holographic door release vanished, replaced by Arthur's avatar. She turned away from him and tapped a hidden button on the bulkhead opposite the door. The panel clicked and slid back to reveal her small armoury. She folded her arms, drumming a staccato beat on her bare arms. _Decisions, decisions, _she thought, eyes flicking over the array of weapons in her miniature armoury. All of the weapons were legitimate, and expected on small, freelance vessels, but Cara took no chances; she had executed a Salarian pirate captain with his own pistol last year because he had casually left his weapons on display, and had no desire to suffer the same fate.

She settled on the Rosenkov Materials Karpov VIII pistol and an Armax Arsenal Avalanche VII shotgun. She hit the recessed button on each, collapsing them to their carrying sizes, and clipped them to the mag-lock strips on her belt.

She plucked her omni-tool from the peg above her head and slid it over her left wrist, securing the clasp to activate it. Her omni-tool looked like a thick black metal link bracelet, though in this case the links were compartments for a microprocessor computer, a 3D holo-display projector, and a comprehensive sensor suite, amongst other things. She liked her current tool, an Ariake Technologies Logic Arrest VI; it could store all manner of data, reproduce any voice pitch perfectly, relay the latest news from Arthur's shipboard scanning suite, and was home to some of the most advanced hacking programs in the galaxy.

Cara pulled a thick zip-up vest from a hanger and shrugged into it. Made of black fabric and kinetic padding, the vest looked very casual, but featured ablative ceramic plates behind the outer fabric, and a weapons harness and kinetic barrier generator on the back. She zipped it up halfway, leaving her breastbone exposed. She liked the look; it was almost as if she didn't care about enemy fire. However, the barrier generator was one of the best available, and if that did not stop enemy fire then it was doubtful that anything could.

Finally, she slid the small earpiece into her right ear, the proximity activating the sound-powered sub-dermal throat microphone she had been implanted with.

"Comms check Arthur," sub-vocalised Cara, her voice only audible to her through her earpiece.

"Loud and clear mistress," said Arthur in her ear. "The docking tube has mag-locked to the side of the Sgàil, and there are two mercenaries approaching the other end. We seem to have landed in an area controlled by the Blue Suns Mercenary Group."

"Oh right. Well, I'll play nice," said Cara, grinning wolfishly.

"Please do mistress; it would be a shame to attract undue attention."

"I'll see you in a bit."

Cara hit the button beside Arthur's avatar, and the inner airlock door slid open. She stepped inside the cramped airlock and let the door close behind her. She felt the hiss of the air pressure equalising, and swallowed to stop her ears from popping. The outer door clicked once and slid to the right, exposing the long, featureless passage of metal and lumo-strips that led to the main transit hub of this tentacle of Omega. At the end of the tube stood a pair of Blue Suns mercenaries, their white and blue paintwork a high contrast to the drab surroundings.

Taking a deep breath, the fetid smell of overly-recycled air and too many people living in cramped surroundings making her regret it, Cara walked towards them, boots lightly thumping on the deep grey floor plates. Her eyes took in the mid-range Batarian State Arms assault rifles the pair carried in a relaxed grip, and the mirrored visors that hid their features. There was no disguising their body language though; they knew they ran this part of Omega, and their cocky swagger showed it.

"Going somewhere princess?" Called one of them, his voice resonating with the peculiar flanged harmonics that the turians were noted for.

"To Afterlife," said Cara, looking up at the turian, whose bulky helmet hid any trace of his colony markings.

"Not without paying some docking fees," said the turian's companion, a human, with a leer that showed nicotine-stained teeth filed to knife points. The man was bulky, his armour chipped and well-worn. Something about his stance triggered Cara's warning senses. She could not put her finger on it, but he did not seem like any other human mercenary she had come across. His helmet moved fractionally. Cara's skin crawled; she could feel his gaze like a search light, looking her up and down.

"Seen what you want to see?" Cara asked, her grey-blue eyes boring into his visor.

"Not quite." His features twisted again. "But I'll see it soon enough."

"Mistress, contact rear!" Called Arthur over her earpiece, his voice oddly distorted.

Cara whirled round, automatically dropping into a defensive crouch. She saw a brief flickering in front of her eyes before the cloaking device dropped, white-blue light arcing over the batarian mercenary's armour.

Without thinking, she moved in the desired physical mnemonic, her Eezo nodules flaring as she formed a dark energy biotic field and threw him back several feet. The batarian landed with a clatter of armour. The purple-white light of the dark energy field rippled over her body like a . She turned back to face the pair who had initially accosted her.

"Son of a bitch," spluttered the human, raising his assault rifle. Out of the corner of her eye, Cara saw his turian companion following suit.

She slid into another series of mnemonics, lifting the pair of them and throwing them away. They hit the ground and lay still. Cara let out a breath, forcing her racing heart to slow down. The biotic field that surrounded her dissipated.

_So much for sneaking in undetected_, she thought. She walked past the comatose mercenaries, eyes flicking around the bare metal of the access corridor, taking in the patches of rust on several panels, and the pool of foul-smelling light green fluid that had formed below a hydraulics pipe. There was no one else around. _Probably scared away by the Blue Suns,_ she mused. She doubted she was the first person to be treated to their 'welcome', but they might think twice in future.

At the end of the corridor she slapped the glowing green door release and was rewarded with the hiss of hydraulics. The airlock door slid apart with the grind of metal on metal, revealing the broad walkway that served as the main artery for this part of Omega.

In front of her, up a set of broad steps, stood the converted hanger that served as the main markets, the flickering orange holo-sign above the entrance doors advertising weapons, mods and all manner of foodstuffs. Even at this early hour patrons shuffled to and fro, some armed with exotic-looking variations on firearms, clutching bags and cases stuffed with their purchases. She saw a pair of Blue Suns, a turian and a batarian, lounging idly by the door and swept a glance over them. They did not seem to be disturbed by her presence, so the team that had greeted her in the docking bay must not been in contact with the ones inside. _Stupid_, she thought; _if you were going to run a racket like that, you'd want to make sure you could get backup fairly quickly._

To her left sat a taxi rank, a fleet of unmanned X3M skycars waiting for their next passengers. She saw several human gang types lurking around them, all Mohawks and bad piercings, the pseudo-leather jackets a little too worn to be anything but gang colours, such as they were.

She was still taking in the gang types out of the corner of her eye as she walked towards the market, when she felt someone coming towards her from her right. She flicked her eyes over to see a man, roughly her age, weaving his way through the crowd, his gait suggesting that he had hit the salarian ale a little too hard. His clothes, that unflatteringly cut drab brown jacket and trousers that most off-world humans tended to wear, were rumpled and stained, and his eyes were bloodshot. She pursed her lips; his face seemed to match that of the contact she was due to meet. She turned to her right and casually walked towards the hab-blocks, hoping to get a better look at him.

As she got nearer, she noted that he had stopped and was swaying, eyes glazed over. Maybe it was not salarian ale, but something stronger, she decided. Red sand maybe? It seemed to be all the rage with drug users. Biotic capabilities without the problems that most proper biotics had, be it occasional migranes or latent paranoia, to name but 2 side effects. _Idiots_, she thought; _biotics are not just something to be messed around with, they're the next step in humanity's evolution._

The man stumbled towards her. Cara's combat alertness shifted up a gear, her hands automatically moving to be prepared to deliver a nerve jab or summon a biotic slap that would send him away.

"Spare some credits?" The man slurred, his half-vacant eyes flicking over her. Her nose wrinkled at the smell of his breath, a potent mixture of halitosis and stale alcohol. She blinked to get rid of the unbidden tears that had gathered in her eyes, barely catching the almost imperceptible wink that he gave her.

She almost smiled, but her professional sensibilities clamped down on the thought. It was an old trick, but everyone ignored the drunkard, which made it the perfect cover. She glanced at his right temple, noting the small tattoo of a fist holding a lightning bolt. That decided it: he was definitely the contact.

"How's twenty?" She asked, pulling a pair of coins from her vest pocket, holding them towards him in her left hand.

"That'll do," he slurred, roughly snatching them from her. Cara felt a small scrape on her wrist under her omni-tool, but it did not worry her. The drunkard stumbled off, pocketing the change. Cara shook her head and carried on walking.

Without looking, she slid the tiny scrap of folded paper from under her omni-tool and looked at it. In small, dark ink it read:

263 Hircon Towers. Guest has friends.

She pocketed the piece of paper and carried on walking, mentally decoding the message. Clearly Pa-Je was at this Hircon Towers, and had an escort of some kind. She doubted that he was staying at 263, that was merely her meeting point. She carried on walking for a couple more minutes, before turning back and heading towards the taxi rank. Time to get on with the job.


	2. Chapter 2

Armistan Banes hated waiting, no matter how much it was part of the job. Alliance Intelligence, the vast department that tried to keep the Systems Alliance brass and politicians up to date with galactic information, had contracted him to meet a group that were supposedly as concerned about the Alliance's lack of punch on the galactic stage as Intelligence were.

So far he had not been impressed. He and his team had inserted a couple of days ago, to meet the group's leader, only to meet a grubby, dishevelled excuse for a man in a rundown hab-block in one of the worst areas of Omega. The man had apologised for his appearance, but stated that since he was on an active operation, his appearance was merely cover. Banes had gone along with it, trying to ignore the bad feelings he was getting from the set up.

These Cerberus guys were meant to be some sort of heavy-hitting black ops outfit, but nothing he had seen suggested that they were anything other than a bunch of thugs, with a massive pro-human bent at that. Most of the shooter-types he had seen all seemed to favour highly customised equipment, not the Onyx armour and HK issue rifles that the Alliance carried. But, again, this could just be their cover. So far he had only met a handful of people, including a guy that acted like a real drunkard, and only in locations of their choosing.

He pursed his lips; it might be time to do things his way. He had sent a coded message back to his contacts requesting reinforcements, and had just been told that the MSV Carrington was approaching Omega. That had surprised him; clearly the brass were as worried about this Cerberus group as he was.

He gazed out of the small window in the hotel room he had checked into, watching skycars speed around the area, their autopilot VIs ensuring that they stayed within the traffic lanes, no matter what their passengers wanted to do. A thick brown haze of various pollutants and other gases hung in the air, blurring the hab-blocks in the distance.

He turned away, flicking his eyes over the two guys with him, both lounging on an overstuffed cream pseudo-leather sofa. Both had been with him a long time, and had the scars to prove it. Like Banes, both were also ex-military, now deep in the world of deniable operations. Banes liked his position; he could do whatever it took to get his contract done, but once he was done, there was no paperwork, no office. _And_, he thought, _at least I get to help humanity_.

The door chimed. All 3 men turned to face it, hands automatically reaching for their weapons.

"Who is it?" Called Banes, his hand on the butt of the ERCS 'Striker' pistol that was mag-locked to his waist.

"Leonard Johnston," came a voice from the other side of the door. "The wild card's arrived."

"Right, I'll be with you in jus' a minute," said Banes, relaxing his grip and walking towards the door.

He clicked the door release and stepped back to admit their contact, who looked surprisingly clear-eyed today, though he still wore the same distressed brown outfit. Idly, Banes wondered if he slept in it too.

"Morning Banes," nodded Leonard, running his hands through his greasy hair as he stumbled towards the window. "As I said, our wildcard's just made contact."

"Who is this wildcard?" Banes' eyes narrowed as he slid the door shut and walked into the small living room. A brief glance at his comrades told him that they were ready for anything, though their casual, almost bored, poses suggested otherwise.

"A freelancer," said Leonard, his eyes constantly flicking around the room. "We contacted her when we realised that she would be perfect for our plans. If she follows our schedule, she'll take out Pa-Je later on this cycle."

"And your shooters in case the plan fails?"

"In position and ready."

"Good. Jus' make sure they're ready. I don't like lone wolves; they can screw up any operation."

"They're ready Banes. What about you?"

"We're good to go. Just give the word."

"Excellent. Our leader would like to speak to you."

"Is that right? Well, you'll just have to show him in won't you?" Banes smirked, placing his fists on his hips.

"He's not here," sighed Leonard. "But, we do have some communications gear that you should use."

"Uh-huh. And when do you want me to speak to this fella?"

"As soon as the current task is done," said Leonard. "You can talk to him once I've made my report. It's over in Warehouse District Three, Unit Two Seventeen. You can bring your guys too if you want."

"Is that right? I might just do that," said Banes. He rolled his tongue around his teeth. "And then what?"

"That's up for the boss to decide, we're only here to perform this operation then we're moving on to somewhere new," shrugged Leonard. He folded his arms across his chest, throwing out another wave of horrific body odour. "And hopefully somewhere where I don't need to act like a drunken bum."

"I see." Banes pursed his lips. "Okay, I'll get my guys together and meet you outside the warehouse at twenty three hundred local time."

"Right you are," said Leonard. He shoved his hands back into his pockets. "I shall see you then."

He walked past Banes and headed out of the door. Banes counted to five before turning to face the pair on the sofa.

"Well boss?" One of them, a thin wiry man clad in form-fitting dark blue ballistic fabric and a kinetic barrier harness, asked. His face was gaunt, heightened by the wide Mohawk of black hair that he continually played with.

"Just as we planned Tommy, jus' as we planned," smiled Banes. "Hopefully Intel've sent us a good group of shooters. Brett, check out the Carrington, and see if anyone's departed."

"Will do boss," said Brett. Like Tommy, he was thin, but he was dressed a lot more conservatively, in a loose-fitting shirt and trousers of dark grey. His own face was relatively free of scars, but the rest of his body was covered in a mixture of scar tissue and tattoos, all memories of something he had done in his life. He stood up, stretched, ran his fingers through his neatly-cut brown hair and walked towards the door with an easy swagger, his footsteps noiseless. "And if someone's left?"

"Make contact and see what they're bringing to the party," said Banes from his position by the window.

"Roger that," said Brett from beyond the rapidly closing door.

"And me boss?" Said Tommy, regarding Banes from behind the pair of acutely-angled sunglasses he wore.

"Find this wildcard, and follow her. I want to know what the hell she's up to."

"Don't trust her boss?" Tommy asked, activating his omni-tool. The woman's file, such as it was, flashed up on a flat holo that floated above his left forearm. "She's cute."

"I just think there's something kinda strange about her," said Banes, shaking his head; trust Tommy to think with his other brain. "If she looks like she's going to cause us problems, take her down."

"On it boss," said Tommy, uncoiling himself from the sofa and slipping through the door like a ghost.

Banes waited for a moment before walking over to one of the travel cases they had brought from their ship. He opened it, revealing an assortment of clothes and omni-gel packets, as well as a small wallet of OSDs and a reader. The standard detritus that anyone takes when they go away, his instructor had once said. He tossed everything out of the case, and pushed the hidden mechanical catches in the corners of the case. Each responded with a faint click, until finally he lifted off the false bottom, revealing the compact communications gear he had been supplied with by Alliance Intelligence.

Working quickly, he uncoiled the standard power coupling and plugged it into the wall socket, hitting the power button on top of the thin rectangular compact control unit. He tapped a few commands into holo-screen that hovered a few inches above the surface of the unit. The systems check came back okay, so Banes hit the commands to set up an obfuscated network connection to his contact in Intelligence. The mesh built into the liner of the case's lid set up a wireless connection to several public extranet terminals, their dedicated programs infiltrating the secure connections and setting up relay links to other networks until eventually it had connected to the comm buoy system. From there, the signal was bounced around until it reached the corresponding terminal in his contact's office. It delayed the signal by a couple of seconds, but security was always more important than timely replies. He pulled out the small earphone that was wired directly to the unit and picked up the tiny microphone.

"Black Mamba calling Mongoose," he said, his voice low. The Southern accent he usually affected had been dropped, replaced by his best colonist accent.

"Mongoose here, authenticate Charlie Three Six," said the flat, mechanical voice in his ear. He knew it was a simple voice-disguiser, but he appreciated his contact's thoroughness; he could not identify them at all, which was essential in the Intelligence business.

"Black Mamba, response Juliet One Eight."

"Mongoose. Authentication confirmed. How are things where you are?"

"Going well," said Banes, careful to couch his report in terms that anyone listening in on could not work out too easily. "Our new friends are certainly different. Not quite what I expected, but that could just be smoke and mirrors. I'm meeting their father later. The new kid may be sent packing by tomorrow, thanks to a ghost."

"Really? So our friends aren't standing up to him directly? That is interesting. Any idea who this ghost is?"

"Amelia Lockhart, a proper ghost in the night. And the friends don't seem to be that big on going toe to toe with anyone."

"Understandable, given their reputation. Thanks for that, we'll check her out. Have you met your cousins yet?"

"Not yet, but one of my brothers has been sent to see if they're lost. My other brother's gone ghost-hunting."

"I take it you told him to be careful? And the cousin's are hoping to go hunting on their trip to see you."

"I thought they might. I know just where to take them too. And yeah, I told my brother to be careful."

"Good stuff. Well, enjoy your stay, and if you find the heat's getting too much, then I suggest a short break on Eden Prime."

"I might take you up on that suggestion. I shall be in touch."

"If I have urgent news, I shall ping your omni-tool," said the flat voice. "Mongoose signing off."

The channel went dead. Banes glanced down at his display. His contact had cut the link, and thus prevented anyone from back-tracing it. He shutdown the unit, restored the false bottom to the case, and threw the clothes and devices back into the case.

_So,_ he thought as he packed,_ the ship's carrying a kill squad. Mongoose must be expecting trouble. But I've not been that complimentary about these Cerberus guys, so it's kinda expected. Looks like they want to take out this freelancer too. It was bad news for her, but I doubt she'll be missed._

He sighed at that. Why did so many gang-bangers and ex-military guys think the professional market was for them? The market was, quite literally, cut-throat, with too many amateurs and idiots trying their hand. Most got killed in the first contract or two, and those that survived learned the tricks of the trade and picked up some decent gear before trying again. Others, the real professionals, were cold-blooded killers, all prepared to do whatever was necessary to carry out their contract and survive. This, to Banes' mind, was one of the reasons the krogan were good as mercenaries; they were prepared to take out anyone to get to their target.

_Now_, wondered Banes, _which category does this freelancer fall into?_

Part of him hoped she was a pro; it would make a change to go up against someone who was actually good at the job. He checked his pistol again, making sure the action was smooth and the mag-coils clean. It was a habit he had picked up over the years, but not a bad one. He hit the 'retract' button and slapped it against his belt.

He glanced around the small apartment one last time before he left, partially to imprint a mental image of how it should look on his consciousness, and partially to check that nothing incriminating had been left out in the open. He waited for the door to lock behind him, then called up his omni-tool and hit the control sequence for the automatic security measures; it was always better to be safe than sorry in his book.

Whistling to himself, he walked towards the main elevators. _Time to go and meet the Alliance kill team, and see what surprises he could cook up for the Cerberus team and this freelancer_, he thought with a tight, humourless smile.


	3. Chapter 3

Cara Strang wriggled in the plastic-covered seat of the X3M, nervous at not being in control, and immediately wished she hadn't. The smell of stale alcohol, sweat and other bodily fluids clogged her nostrils, nearly making her vomit. She had picked one of the cabs at random back at the main market and programmed it to take her to the block beyond the Hircon Towers. _Why make it any easier for someone to track me?_ She had thought.

The Towers were rapidly approaching to her left, and looked no different to any of the other cylindrical hab-blocks that studded the interior of Omega, other than the holo-sign above them, which rotated in a garish display of yellow and blue. Cara snorted at that; Pa-Je was definitely not attempting to go low profile if he was staying in this place.

"Thirty seconds to touchdown," intoned the flat synthesised feminine voice that the sky car's VI had been programmed with. "Please insert credits to leave."

Cara dutifully inserted over 70 credits, the cost of the trip rankling her. But, she had been shown what happened if a passenger refused to pay, and the prospect of getting sliced apart by a couple of thugs did not rank highly on her 'to do' list. She would not get much choice in the matter either, with the car's environmental systems primed to discharge a cloud of nerve gas that would incapacitate her if she failed to pay before reaching her destination.

The sky car slowed, descending until it reached the taxi rank halfway down the adjacent hab-block, along a main pedestrian walkway that spanned between the buildings. With a faint whine of collapsing mass effect fields, the skycar landed. No sooner had it landed than the doors hissed open, admitting the somewhat fresher air of Omega.

Fresher was a relative term, Cara decided, the tang of industrial strength cleaner hitting her nostrils with an acidic bite. Still, it beat the smell of the skycar. Casually she walked away from the taxi rank, noting the array of gang types that strutted through the assorted collection of pedestrians, their swagger implying that they held the area. She took a long, slow look around the area, the streetlights having difficulty keeping out the gloom down here, amongst the fog of exhaust, steam and several chemical vapours that Cara was sure had been banned for several years, noting several stylised graffiti sprays of a red three-clawed hand gripping a planet amongst the grime and rust that stained the dark grey metal. _Turian supremacists: fantastic_, thought Cara with an inward groan.

She walked off, heading towards the hotel, trying not to draw too much attention to herself. It was easier said than done though; there were very few humans walking the thoroughfare.

"Hey soft-skin, fancy showing us a good time?" Called one of the gang members, a turian in a pair of brown trousers and a dark blue utility vest, the sneer in his voice plain to everyone judging by the way the pedestrians around Cara shrank away, leaving her exposed. Like the rest of his posse, his face was painted bright red, the markings swirling lines that made it look as if his head was on fire.

"Not tonight boys," said Cara, still purposefully striding towards the hotel.

"It wasn't a request," the ganger said, breaking into a run, a blade appearing in his hand from somewhere. The rest of the gang followed, their shouts of laughter lost amongst the din of a passing freighter, its chem-rocket engines roaring as it flew overhead, the Binary Helix logo sprayed in bright orange on its side.

Cara did not waste time with a pithy retort, but broke into a run, heading towards one of the pedestrian off-ramps she had seen, though it took her deeper into the slums. She shoved other people to one side, ignoring the shouts and idle threats that followed. She had to make it to the bottom before the gang caught up with her. She could hear their whoops of joy behind her, getting louder with each second.

_Finally_, she thought, nearing the bottom of the ramp, and the relative darkness of the lower hab-zone. The crowds were thinner here, making it easier for them to see her, but would mean that less civilians would get hurt. _And no one can spread the word about a human biotic being on the station if they're all dead_, she thought hopefully.

She stopped dead at the bottom of the ramp, seeing the collection of batarians that sat opposite the ramp on a collection of shipping crates and an old skycar, their drab grey heavily-padded bodysuits marking them out as something other than normal gang members.

"There she is," growled one of them, leaping up from his perch on the front of the skycar and producing a wide-bladed punch dagger that gleamed dully, the dark blue film that coated the blade definitely not maintenance oil.

"Fuck," she muttered to herself. She glanced back up the ramp, noting that the turians had slowed, advancing at a cautious walk, though their blades remained out and ready. _Stuck between a rock and a hard place: how do you manage it?_

She took a deep breath, thinking quickly. She could not rely on her pistol; it would overheat before she could take them all out. However, she noticed that the batarians remained cautiously near the skycar, as if afraid of the turians. _Rival gangs? _ She doubted it; the batarian had spoken as if he had been expecting her.

"The human's ours," spat one of the turians from behind her, though not the same one that had initially called to her, judging by his voice.

"Walk away turian, and you might live to see another cycle," said the batarian, brandishing his dagger.

"Not a chance," said the turian.

_Typical posturing,_ thought Cara. She remained quiet and still, knowing that one wrong move could be fatal.

"So you wanna play it like that?" The batarian barked a short laugh. He lowered his arm.

A shot rang out, the echo reverberating around the area.

Instinctively, Cara ducked, whilst going through the mnemonic that generated a protective biotic barrier. Blue light flared in the darkness, surrounding her in a rippling mass effect field.

Behind her, she heard one of the turians hit the ground, his gasp of surprise ending in a spluttered gargle as he choked on his own blood. The other members of the gang roared in anger, a discordant sound that made Cara's blood chill. She heard the electro-mechanical sounds of weapons being drawn and stole a glance back to see them brandishing pistols, though the pistols looked somewhat worn and unmaintained.

The batarian a few metres away from her merely laughed. From behind his back he pulled out a shotgun, the flickering indicators showing that it had been loaded with powerful incendiary rounds and, unlike the turians, his weapon seemed well-maintained.

_Curiouser and curiouser_, thought Cara; these batarians were definitely not normal gang types. _So what then? Military? Some of Pa-Je's bodyguard that've been tipped off that I'm here? They could even be Aria's people._

"Take it easy batarian, we're leaving," said a turian. Cara recognised his voice as the one that had called to her initially.

She risked another glance backwards, noting that the turians had picked up their fallen comrade and were slowly heading back up the ramp, though those that had free hands were still pointing their weapons at the batarians.

"Wise move," said the batarian. He turned his head, eyes coming to rest on Cara. He aimed along the sights of the shotgun. "Drop the barrier human. My orders are to take you in alive if possible, but I will kill you if you don't cooperate."

Cara nodded, releasing her concentration and allowing the field to dissipate. She shivered; maintaining the barrier had been demanding, and her body was starting to go into a glucose crash.

"Spare some change?" Called a voice from the gloom, the unique flanging marking it out as turian.

Cara whirled towards the source of the voice, seeing a thin and dishevelled turian male heading towards her, his clothes badly patched, exposing the mottled grey plates of his carapace, the natural defence that the turians had built up over the millennia to cope with the increased solar radiation on Palaven. Except, most turians had a fairly uniform covering in her experience, and the plates of this turian seemed to be twisted and warped, almost decaying, suffused with some inner blue glow.

_What the hell happened to him?_ Cara wondered, even as she automatically looked around her for any signs of imminent ambush.

"Spare some change?" Repeated the turian, holding out his left hand, which Cara noted was as deformed as his exposed plates, and wrapped in a long snake of glowing blue cabling.

"Beat it turian," snapped the batarian, waving his blade at the sorry figure, whose eyes seemed to twinkle with some inner light.

It was exactly the opening Cara had been hoping for. She called upon her depleted reserves of energy and slammed the batarian with a throw, the mass effect field carrying on, hitting the skycar and bumping it. Not much, but enough to throw the batarians clustered behind it into disarray.

Cara turned away from the batarians and ran, hoping to make it past the turian and into the darkness of the lower levels before they recovered.

She barely made it 30 metres before a shot rang out, slamming against her kinetic barriers like a hammer blow, making her stagger. Behind her the batarians were starting to recover. She rolled forward, allowing the momentum to carry her over onto her left hand side, even as she reached over with her right hand and drew her pistol. She ended up lying on her back, facing the batarians, her pistol ready.

A single shot at each and they collapsed, dead. She breathed out slowly, the adrenaline spike fading away. She was starting to get a slow-burning headache behind her eyes; a sure sign that she had been using too much energy on her biotics.

Her eyes flicked towards the turian, who stood rooted to the spot, eyes staring down at her.

"Spare some change?" He asked, almost hopefully.

Cara stood, keeping her pistol trained on the downed batarians, and walked towards them. They were definitely all dead. _But then a shot to the head has that effect on most species_, she thought, a brief smile playing across her features.

She searched the bodies, finding no identity cards, which did not surprise her. However, she did find an e-key for Hircon Towers, though there was no room number on the card. She also found a bundle of credits on one of the bodies and tossed them to the turian.

"Thanks," she said, and walked back up the ramp, glad to see the broad smile that crossed the turian's face. _Who the hell were these guys? They didn't seem to know the turian group. And no information to work on either. _She tapped the comm-unit in her ear. "Arthur, are you there?"

"Yes mistress," said Arthur, his voice distorted by the weak signal.

"Did Pa-Je bring much security?" She snapped the pistol back against the mag-strip on her right hip and walked back up the ramp, ignoring the smear of dark blue blood that marked the place the gang member had been shot.

"Not that much mistress, a trio of batarians and a turian," said Arthur, his _faux_-cheerfulness beginning to grate on Cara's nerves.

"A turian?" Cara stopped dead. She had just realised where she had heard about those markings before.

She whirled round to see the strange turian barely a step behind her. He grinned broadly. Cara drew her arm back, getting ready to biotically throw him backwards. The turian leapt, sinewy claws closing round her throat. She felt herself fall backwards, her vision already getting dim around the edges. She scrabbled for her pistol, but the turian slammed the back of her head against the ramp. Cara blinked, trying to focus, but the turian applied more pressure to her neck.

"Mistress?" She dimly heard Arthur's voice in her ear, but could not even sub-vocalise a response.

She tried to grab the turian, but her arms would not respond. She saw a gleam of blue in his eyes, and lapsed into unconsciousness.


End file.
